Kiri

Kiri dreamed that night, strange dreams of lands far away; some covered in snow, some in sand, and some – the worst – in blood. She was not the type of girl that often dreamt of blood, nor did she see it often, but there was no mistaking the red sea that covered the grass in her dreams. She dreamt of magic as well, of being able to bend the wind to her will and the sea to her whims. But she also saw another image of herself, beside the first – a woman who would break men before she would bend them, and tear the world asunder before she would be its servant.

She awoke in a cold sweat, waking one of the other serving girls beside her. The sun peered from behind the horizon, lazily unfurling its rays across the stones of the square below. For a moment, Kiri indulged herself, watching the empty square slowly awaken. Merchants emerged from their houses to open their shops, mothers and daughters arrived at the village fountain with baskets of laundry balanced on their hips, fathers and sons trudged toward their fields to toil the day away, and one lone, cloaked figure walked down the path from the inn.

It took only a moment for Kiri to recognize it as the storyteller’s cloak, and only another for her to realize the storyteller did not walk with the hobble of an old woman as she had the night before, but instead walked with a purposeful stride. She scrambled to get dressed, quickly descending from the attic where the serving girls shared one large straw-stuffed mattress, down the next two flights of stairs to the common room where the Madam sat counting her coins.

“Did you have anything you wanted from town, Madam?” she asked, the words coming from her mouth so quickly they seemed to stumble over one another.

The Madam looked at her through narrowed eyes. “’Tis early, girl. Cait hasn’ even given me her list for market yet.”

“I could fetch it,” she offered, trying not to sound too eager.

“Could ya now?” The Madam gave her a scrutinizing look. “And what’s it ta you ta be so helpful this mornin’?”

“Just can’t get back to sleep is all, Madam.”

With one last glare, the woman gave a nod. “Good enough. I’d rather not deal with the woman no-way.”

Kiri skipped off to the kitchen, thanking the Madam as she disappeared through the door. Cait was harder to impress, though, and the woman reluctantly handed over her hastily scribbled list.

“See you aren’t late now, girl-o,” the cook said, giving her a sharp look with her piercing green eyes. “I don’ want ta start dinner late, ya hear me?”

“I hear, Cait,” Kiri promised, clutching the list tightly to her chest. “I’ll be back before you know.”

“Now, I doubt that,” Cait sniffed.

---

When Kiri made it to the square, it was already teeming with people, and the storyteller had long been lost within them. With nothing else to do, Kiri went about procuring the items on Cait’s list, haggling the spice merchant the way Perra had once showed her, and choosing the freshest buns from the baker’s oven (with help from Margary). She was almost done purchasing a choice cut of venison when she saw the green cloak again bobbing through the crowd. Kiri threw the money at the butcher without waiting for change and ran off with the slab of venison tucked under her arm.

Small enough to weave through the crowd, Kiri was able to easily catch up with the storyteller, following the green cloak past building after building, until they reached the public stables, which recently began to double as the new post building.

Old women loitered in front of the building as they once had around the village fountain, hoping to hear some new gossip from the riders who passed through. All of them quieted their gossiping to watch the storyteller enter, and when the door closed behind her they all began to cluck at each other again.

“You girly, ya have good ears?” one asked, and it took her a moment to realize they were talking to her.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied politely.

“See if ya can hear what they’re sayin’,” the old woman told her, pushing her towards the wooden door.

Kiri pressed her ear against it, trying to find one of the cracks between the wood. Eventually, she heard them speaking, though the words came out slightly muffled.

“No riders from the Cresent?” the storyteller asked, sounding a little harried. “None?”

“None, my lady,” the postman told her. “Least-ways, none from where you came.”

“And the man? Has he come?” she pressed.

“No, my lady. And he hasn’t sent no word neither. Do you think he might be lost?”

The storyteller gave a bitter laugh. “No. Never. Not that he’d ever admit. He’ll find his way here if it takes an Age.”

“Well, I don’ know if any of us folk has that kind o’ time, my lady.”

The lady laughed again. “Assuredly not. Thank you, friend.”

Quickly, Kiri pried herself away from the door.

“Well, girly? What’d they say?” one of the old women asked.

She opened her mouth – to say what, she didn’t know – but the door flung open, revealing the storyteller. The old women scattered and gathered a safe distance away, careful not to watch the woman too carefully.

“Kiri!” the lady exclaimed, surprised. Kiri couldn’t see her eyes, but she knew they were watching her, sizing her up. “What a kind girl you must be, to come out here to fetch an old crone. It must be getting on near dinner then.”

Kiri looked toward the west and saw she was right – her shopping must have taken most of the morning and into the afternoon, for now the sun was beginning its descent behind the mountain peaks. No doubt Cait would be expecting her already, and she would get a good tongue lashing for making the cook start her work late.

“Yes, lady. Are you heading back now?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, I believe its time we both went back. No doubt your Madam will be expecting me for dinner.”

---

Cait had already worked herself up into a healthy rage when Kiri came back with her food from market, and she entertained herself by yelling at her as she began to angrily dice the vegetables. Kiri hung her head and nodded when the cook insulted her while seasoning the venison, but when Cait ran out of rage she handed Kiri a bowl of soup with an apologetic smile.

“You’re a good girl, Kiri.”

Kiri beamed and wolfed down the soup, just in time to be sent upstairs to ready the rooms with Perra. When she emerged into the common room hours later, the young musician had already begun to play and one of the serving girls foisted a basket of biscuits off on her.

She didn’t see the storyteller until dinner was nearly over, but she was unsure if this was because the woman had come late or if she had just been too busy to notice whom she was serving. One thing was for certain though: when the plates had been cleared and the ale began to flow heavily, the room got abnormally quiet, until even the minstrel stopped playing. Some patrons’ eyes were politely avoiding the corner where the storyteller sat, but others – either rude or outright drunk – stared at her with expectant gazes, waiting for her to take up her story.

The woman took a sip of her ale and beckoned Kiri over.

“Take me over to the fire, child,” she said, louder than Kiri thought was warranted. She wanted to protest and say she did not think the woman needed the help, but she stooped down anyway to offer the seated woman her shoulder to lean on. The storyteller made a show of using Kiri for support, but in truth barely put any of her weight on her. She thanked Kiri kindly when she was seated by the hearth, and for a moment she was sure the woman smiled slyly at her.

“Tell us of Elishaveth, lady!” the young mistral pleaded, breaking the silence. “Or of Orithyia.”

“I will tell you of whoever must be in my story next, boy,” she said to him as a playful rebuke. “And the sisters are not. Soon though,” she promised. “No, my tale continues else where, across the Sea of Swords to the edge of the Inland Sea, where once the loneliest of souls lived…”